Mama, What the hell is wrong with you?
I was sideswiped by my five year old’s words. Stunned.
Hurt. Where had he learned
that? I had never said that to him. I knew his father had never said that to
him. I scoured my brain. My parents: no. His teachers: no.
I turned
away from him. I was juggling making
dinner with his needs, and right now, nobody was winning out. I couldn’t get far enough making dinner
without interruptions, and every need of his was so significant, it “couldn’t
wait.” Now, here we were.
I was
alternately sad and enraged, but more than that, I froze in that place of hurt.
“Talk to
your father,” I said. “I can’t help you
now.” While I believe in regulating my
own emotions before engaging in sticky situations with my child, at that
moment, I was so contracted, I didn’t know where to begin. In that place, shoving him off on the other
parent seemed wise.
Philippe
joined us in the kitchen. Everything
about me screamed contraction. My
stomach, throat, voice, all felt tight and mean. I started to cry.
“I can’t
believe you said that to me,” I said. Phoenix
stared, transfixed. It certainly wasn’t
the first time he had seen me cry, but it was a rare moment when it was because
of his words and actions. He began to
cry as well. Philippe sat with both of
us. Part of me wanted to torch him with
flames, but the other part just felt deeply sad.
Phoenix
wept, and I held him close. Even in those moments, I can usually find that
place in me that wants to hold my sweet boy close. I didn’t want to push him away; I wanted connection.
“Mama’s
hurt,” Philippe said. And then a small
space opened within that tight bad of hurt.
“Where did
you hear that,” I said. “Who said, ‘what
the hell is wrong with you’?”
Phoenix
answered right away, “A--- said it.”
“When did
he say it?”
“He pushed
me down the stairs, and when I started to cry, he said, ‘What the hell is wrong
with you?’” I felt myself breathe
again. I didn’t realize I had been
holding my breath, but I had.
“How did
that make you feel?”
“Bad.”
I nodded
with him. Suddenly it all made
sense. He had felt powerless. He was testing the words out to see if they
had impact. They had.
“When you
said it to me, I felt really bad, too.
Awful. Kind of how you felt when
A--- said it to you.” He nodded.
“Words are
powerful,” I said. “Even when a kid says
them. They hurt.”
I held him
close.
“Your words
are powerful. Just remember that. They can hurt an adult. They hurt me.”
We breathed
in together. In and out. Within my body,
I felt more opening. I felt connection, which is what Phoenix had
really wanted – and I had wanted, too. If A--- had said this to Phoenix, then
who had said it to A----. Maybe another kid.
Maybe his parents. He probably
felt the way Phoenix had felt. The way I
had felt. I didn’t have the power to stop that, but I did have the power to
stop it in our family and teach Phoenix how even a five year old has the power
to wound and to heal.
